


boys with long hair

by m0usielous1e



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:57:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9652910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m0usielous1e/pseuds/m0usielous1e
Summary: The karate instructor from the gym across the street was late. Daryl could see the little faces of the students pressed up against the glass as they looked out for the lurid yellow 1979 Mustang the man normally drove. Daryl could not for the life of him figure out why a grown-ass man would drive such a piece-of-shit looking car, but he supposed “ninja” did not pay well.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have like ninety percent of the next chapter of "Sweet" written but I really wanted to get this out.

The karate instructor from the gym across the street was late. Daryl could see the little faces of the students pressed up against the glass as they looked out for the lurid yellow 1979 Mustang the man normally drove. Daryl could not for the life of him figure out why a grown-ass man would drive such a piece-of-shit looking car, but he supposed “ninja” did not pay well. Probably would pay better if the man did not also look like a hippie, what with that long hair and full beard and endless loose shirts and three-quarter pants he apparently had. Not that Daryl really cared.

The garage behind him was in full symphony, an orchestra of drills, jacks, the grunts of men (and one woman) hefting parts half their weight, hammers, the intermittent puffs of air from the compressor, the buzz of various warnings and the occasional clatter as someone dropped a spanner. Daryl was supposed to be under the hood of an ancient German import, trying to squeeze one more day from its Frankenstein engine but it was ten minutes past four and the karate instructor was late.

Daryl’s mind had already flashed to the worst. There had been a five-car pile-up just yesterday, six dead and one injured. An entire family had been wiped out. Then again, the lemon-yellow lemon the hippie ninja usually drove did not look strong enough for the interstate. There were myriad other reasons for the man to be late, and Daryl was just a worrier. For goodness sake, he did not even know the man’s name.

There was a sudden clanking that Daryl felt under his feet, followed swiftly by a curse, and he turned just as Rosita retrieved the exhaust pipe that had just dropped off the back of the truck she was fixing. She was working her way through a Spanish blue streak too, though Daryl could only pick out “carajo”, “mierda” and “hijo de puta” for how often she used them.

“Hey!” yelled Abraham from the doorway of his tiny office. Two little faces peered out the doorway beside him.

She stopped midsentence to glare at him, but he put his hands in his pockets and grunted, “Don’t look at me like I took a dump in your swimming pool, I told you I got my kids in here today. You know they understand full well what you’re saying now better than me.”

Rosita merely rolled her eyes and went back to work, though with a noticeable pink flush to her cheeks. Daryl looked back at his import, grunted at the mess of grease, rust and past-due parts in front of him, no way in hell this was running again, and looked back up at the gym. Against his will, his heartbeat sped up.

The karate instructor had arrived, not in his car, but a genuine 1982 Harley with the sweetest purr Daryl had heard in a long time. The ninja hopped off the bike almost before it had come to a stop, whipped off his helmet and snatched up his backpack. He had tied his hair into a knot, the usual style for class, but it was falling out in a curtain of dark gold along the back of his neck. Had he finally sold the piece-of-shit? Then the man stopped at the door of the gym, turned and looked back at the garage.

Daryl dropped his gaze at once. There was no way he could explain why he had been staring. But when he dared to peer back over the hood of the import, it was to see the instructor jogging across the road. Daryl dropped his wrench.

“Shit!”

“Language,” scolded Rosita with a cackle.

“Shut up,” Daryl snarled, turning to glare at her. 

She had caught him staring once, smirked and said, “Nah, don’t blame you. He is hot. You should say hi.”

Daryl had walked off then, but he was supposed to be working now so he just rolled his eyes and turned back to retrieve his wrench. And then someone cleared their throat and asked, “Hey, uh…do you guys do antiques?”

Daryl almost hit his head on the hood of the import as he shot to his feet. The karate instructor was on the other side of the import at the entrance to the garage, jacket unzipped to reveal a plain white t-shirt underneath, and hair now down completely. Daryl’s throat went dry. In the days and weeks since he had caught himself looking out for the other man, he had never noticed the hippie ninja’s bright blue-green eyes. He swallowed and asked, “What?”

The man chuckled, settling into a relaxed pose, and replied, “I guess I shouldn’t call it an antique, not really, but well, I have a ’79 Mustang that just refused to start and I need to get it looked at.”

“Oh,” said Daryl, and then, thinking that it might not be too weird, asked, “That lemon you usually drive?”

The man laughed, nodded, and said, “Ah, yes, you noticed that. Yeah, that paint job is the only thing holding it together but I’ve been meaning to get it restored.”

“Good luck,” said Daryl, and he meant it. The only thing that car looked good for was the compactor. 

“Yes, thanks, but um, do you guys fix anything like that? I know, I know, I’ve got a car and I don’t know how to fix it and I want to get it restored but—”

“We don’t usually, no,” said Daryl, cutting off the stream before it got too long. The guy blushed when he noticed and Daryl continued, “But I could check it out. Where is it?”

The guy chuckled again, and tapped his fingers over the helmet in his hand and replied, “Ah, yeah, outside a friend’s house. She’s going to kill me when she notices, but I think I have a few days. If you guys can’t fix it, should I still get it towed over here?”

“I’ll have to talk to Abraham,” said Daryl, squeezing the wrench in one hand. “We don’t usually do house calls for walk-ins.”

The longer he spoke to this guy, the warmer his palms got. And he was liable to trip over his tongue. No one else seemed to have noticed, including the guy, but Daryl was sure he could feel Rosita’s eyes on him. She confirmed that she was watching a moment later by replying, “Just get it here and we’ll take care of the rest.”

The guy turned to look at who had spoken, smiled pleasantly at her and said, “Great. Well uh, I’ve got to go. Got a class to teach, but I’ll come by when it’s over to finalise everything. What time do you guys close?”

“Six, but Daryl should be here until eight,” said Rosita before Daryl could respond.

He turned to glare at her again, but she continued without acknowledging him, “I’ll write it up, what’s your name?”

“Je-Paul Rovia,” said the guy, already starting to back out of the garage. “Sorry, nickname’s ‘Jesus’, yeah, I know, hair, beard, but whichever is easier, your pick. So I’ll be back at 7:30. See if I can get someone to tow it over in the interim.”

“Best watch where you’re going, them kids been waiting forever,” grunted Daryl, desperate for this exchange to end. Then he realised what he had just said and how it must sound but Paul merely gave him a small smile and turned and jogged back across the street. 

Daryl watched him until he had disappeared inside the building, exhaled and dropped his attention back to the import. Rosita snorted behind him and said, “So you now have his name, an appointment and soon probably his number, was that so hard?”

Daryl swung round to look at her as he snarled, “The hell?” Embarrassment warred with anger.

Rosita bit back her laughter, straightened, folded her arms and asked, “What?”

All eyes were on them now. Daryl had two choices: take up Rosita’s challenge and have her let everyone in on the fact that he had been staring at Paul Rovia like some schoolgirl with a crush for the past three weeks, leading to some seriously uncomfortable and stupid questions when really, well, he did not have a better excuse, or ignore it. He took the latter and started loosening the bolts on the import’s engine again.

 

It had taken Daryl Dixon far too long to realise that he was interested in men. Will Dixon had warned and beat any such proclivities out of both of his sons, as much as he could, early. Merle, redneck stereotype that he was, with his meth habit and drifter lifestyle had taken them to heart and was currently living the kind of life their father would have been proud to see, if he really cared about his boys. Well, except for the prison stints, Pa had always warned them against letting the pigs get them. 

Daryl, or “sweet Daryleena” as his brother liked to call him, had not quite managed it. Sure he looked tough, with his leather vest and unkempt hair and constant layer of motorcycle grease, but Daryl’s flaw was that he was kind. Pa had tried to beat that out of him too, and when that didn’t work, burn it. Merle, who had long escaped to the military, eventually managed to rescue his baby brother but by then it had been far too late. Their Pa had been a racist redneck to his heart, Confederate flag on his porch, moonshine in a shed in the woods near the shack they called home, network of friends who lived to terrorise their neighbours and spout bullshit about a better world before all this trash started moving in, and Daryl too soft and small a boy to fight him. Still, he had never managed to get rid of Daryl’s need to help, and well, this Paul guy needed help.

Daryl had not noticed the karate instructor or gym at first. Fresh out of Georgia, sleeping in the basement of Rick’s new house and sometimes baby-sitting the transplanted sheriff’s son when he had to work late and the kid was over, Daryl had other concerns. Merle’s sentence was almost up and his brother had somehow tracked him down and been calling for a pick-up. It was the same-old tired shit too, “Ain’t nobody care about you like I do, baby brother.” “It’s just us against the world, and that ‘liberal’ cowboy ain’t gonna want you in his basement forever.” “You and Officer Friendly tighter than blood now, is that it, baby brother? You seen that man’s eyes? Sooner or later he gonna turn on you.”

It was always hard after those calls, and sometimes he would just sit on the back porch with a beer and cigarette trying to remind himself that he had no reason to go back to his brother. Rick and Michonne had helped a lot. The sheriff had sought out Daryl after putting his brother in prison and offered him a new life. His lawyer girlfriend, who had just won a promotion in Virginia and had talked him into moving with her, knew a friend of a friend who needed help in his garage. Daryl had never been out of Georgia in his entire life but there was room in their large new house and if he wanted to help out with the groceries or babysitting their sons, ten year old Carl, and three year old Andre, they would consider it square.

Heading in for his first day had been unexpectedly nerve-wracking. Michonne had called ahead to let them know he was coming, and he was greeted at the door by a tall, red-haired giant of a man who turned out to be Abraham, his Latina ex-girlfriend, half his age and size, Rosita, and the man who ran the office, Eugene. They looked like a motley crew and Abraham decided right then that Daryl would fit right in, and he had. Working at the garage, the only line of work he knew how to do, was good, steady work instead of drifting from place to place with Merle until the cops or some junkie or dealer got them. Hell, he had even let Michonne talk him into attending some abuse therapy sessions and that had not turned out to be bad.

Dr Denise Cloyd looked way too young to be of any real help, and she ran a group therapy session, but Carol—abusive ex-husband who had seriously injured their daughter, the last straw—was funny and cool to hang out with. She wasn’t afraid of him or anything, not anymore, and was the first real friend Daryl had made after the move. She was also the one who clued him in that Denise was a lesbian, dating a rookie cop, Tara, who just happened to be Rick’s new partner. Funny that. But Denise was cool, Tara too, had even invited him out with them one evening though Daryl had declined because he had a feeling none of their friends would have been comfortable around him.

With all these things going on, Daryl had had no time to notice the karate instructor across the street. Then one night while he had been working late, he had heard raised voices and went to the doorway to a domestic incident in progress. Or at least, it had felt like it was going to turn into one. 

It was late, but not enough that there weren’t gym bodies going at it, not that they ever stopped. None of them were outside, but he did not miss the way they were all looking out as a tall, blond nurse broke up with his considerably shorter hippie ninja boyfriend. Not that any of them were going to intervene, Daryl was sure. He had put his hand on the door and pushed it open a little, to better hear what was going on, unsure himself if he was needed.

Blond nurse yelled a lot about being led on and wishing that he had never met the hippie ninja in the same vein that he insisted that he loved the him and wanted things to improve. Hippie ninja insisted that they were never that serious, or at least he had made it clear they weren’t, and refused. It had eventually ended in tears and Daryl thinking that yep, the hippie ninja was a bit of a jerk and deserved to get knocked out. Blond nurse didn’t hit him, just jumped into his own car and sped away. Hippie ninja had hit a nearby dumpster a few vicious kicks and followed. Maybe not after the nurse though, because Daryl had never seen the other man again. Took him a few weeks to realise that he had developed a habit of looking for the return of the nurse, and then a few more to notice that he started leaving later and later, usually after the hippie ninja had packed up for the night and gone. The hippie ninja—Paul—was clearly the last person on Earth who needed someone to look out for him, and yet, here they were. 

If you were small enough that your parents had no doubt sent you to karate to stop people kicking your ass, then maybe you should not grow up to be such a jerk.

 

The tow truck had arrived at five, and Paul came over to supervise as they carefully unloaded the junk Mustang. Daryl had dismissed it as trash, a novelty buy for a hippie in over his head, but up close it was worse. Whoever had sold him this crap car had clearly been offloading their failed restoration and he had been too bright-eyed to know better. Then the hippie ninja said, “Got this beauty as part of my pay one month before my boss was forced to sell his family’s plantation estate to a chain hotel a year ago. Hilltop Manor, if you’ve heard about it, or got friends interested in a wedding venue.”

Daryl, head down under the hood and already writing off the engine, grunted, “Nah, Michonne would never get married in an old plantation. Kill Rick first.”

He did not think either party was interested in getting hitched, not after what Rick went through. As for Michonne, well, she had a three-year-old son by an ex-boyfriend and it did not sound like she had ever planned on marrying that guy before the break-up. 

“Still, it’s a nice place,” said Paul. “Anyway, I was hoping to restore this and sell it. Make double.”

“Not on this,” said Daryl. “Ain’t no antique. Your boss gave you a piece of junk. That bike you got is way better.”

“Ah,” said Paul, deflating considerably. Then, after a moment, “No hope for it at all?”

Daryl looked up at him for a beat. Paul had pretty, big eyes. Daryl looked back down at the engine, exhaled and said, “I can get it running again but the cost of restoring it, you might as well buy a new car. Or sell this for scrap and see if you can get a real antique.”

Daryl stood up away from the car, waiting. Paul nodded a few times and said, “I think I should at least get it running. I know a guy who collects a lot of old stuff, mostly junk but he’s got a whole bike in parts in his garage so maybe he can help save the car. How long do you think this will take?”

Daryl glanced at the car, considered the other project he was working on, and said, “Three weeks. I’ve got other stuff.”

Paul’s face fell a little, to the extent that Daryl almost reconsidered, but then the other man replied, “That’s okay. My friend hates the bike but I’m paying most of the rent so she will have to live with it.”

“Cool, let’s roll it in,” said Daryl, dropping the hood.

Once the car was set up in a corner, looking a strong tap away from crumbling to nothing, Paul left for the gym with the promise to return later to get started on the parts list. Rosita watched him go and said, “He’s in way over his head.”

Daryl grunted at that. An oddly-familiar small blonde woman in full karate outfit had greeted Paul at the door with a big smile and walked him back in. She looked a lot like one of Rick’s neighbours, Mrs Anderson, a doctor’s wife who liked to visit whenever Michonne wasn’t around. More than once Daryl had pondered telling her that the samurai sword was not a prop but a genuine weapon gifted to Rick’s lawyer girlfriend by a former school fencing partner who now lived in Japan, and Michonne knew how to use it, but he had not. At least, he was sure Mrs Anderson would see his joke as a threat and then it would be all more trouble than it was worth.

“You should tell him that if he helps you fix it, it will go faster. Bond over car parts, teach him how to keep it running until he gets it back to the shop,” said Rosita.

Daryl glanced at her to catch her broad, teasing smile. “Oh, come on,” she continued, rolling her eyes at his irritation. “You’ve been staring at him for weeks, I’m surprised his clothes haven’t caught fire already. Go for it, live a little. This is a new start, isn’t it? So, make it one.”

“I ain’t—” Daryl began to protest.

Rosita cut him off with an exaggerated yawn, and said, “God, boring. Don’t care. Give it a go. God knows when was the last time you got laid.” Then she ran off cackling as he turned to give her a piece of his mind.

As he said he would, Paul returned to the garage at half past seven, walking right in the open front door and making it into the shop before Daryl noticed. Daryl felt, rather than heard the other man’s arrival, in that funny way that people sometimes notice they’re no longer alone, and looked up to find the hippie ninja looking over the import.

“What’s wrong with this one?” asked Paul by way of greeting.

Daryl rolled all the way out from under the lemon, grabbed up a rag to clean the worst of the grease off his hands and said, “It’s in slighter better shape than yours.”

“Which is to say…?”

“A new engine and it’s fine. Maybe a new owner too. You may as well roll yours into the junkyard.”

Paul smiled at that, looking away from the import to Daryl at last, and said, “With all this negativity, I’m going to start questioning your skills as a mechanic.”

“I don’t call myself Jesus,” said Daryl, a little more gruffly than he intended. He had been trying to make a joke.

Paul’s smile grew into a grin anyway and he said, “Well I’m going to believe that things are going to work out. This car is going to run like a dream when we’re done with it, Daryl.”

Daryl held Jesus’ gaze for a beat, looked down at the car and said, “Let me get you the list. You said that your friend has parts laying around his garage?”

“Yeah, Aaron, and his boyfriend, Eric. They’re hoarders really. Aaron’s favourites are license plates. Mostly they collect people. I think they’re friends with everyone in this state,” said Jesus, walking over to the car with Daryl. “Hey, maybe I can help you put this together. It would help me at least learn the parts.”

Daryl lifted an eyebrow and asked, “So who takes care of the hog?”

Paul met his gaze, smiled slowly and said, “You ride. You know there are differences between a bike and a car.”

Daryl grunted at that and opened the Mustang’s door to pop the hood. Then Paul said, “But Ms Espinosa suggested I ask for help.” Daryl snapped around to look at him. Paul was still smiling. “I think it’s a wonderful idea. I don’t know a thing about what I’m doing here. So, if you’re willing to teach me, I am willing to learn.”

Daryl stared at Paul. Paul, eyes slightly widened, head tilted up at Daryl with no trace of a smile, clearly attempting to appear earnest, stared back at him. Daryl looked down at the car and said, “I hope your friend has an engine because this one is done.”


	2. Chapter 2

The Grimes’ household was dark and silent when Daryl finally rolled into the garage. Rick’s truck was gone but Michonne’s flashy white BMW was right up to the door to the kitchen. Daryl rolled his bike in beside her, and quietly entered the house.

From the kitchen entrance, Daryl had to walk more than halfway into the house to get down to the basement. It was not an arrangement he favoured, because he could leave a trail that would have Michonne side-eying him for days or, like now, wake her when he arrived late and have her side-eying him in the morning. She met him at the bottom of the stairs when he came around, dressed in a bathrobe with her waist-length "goddess locs" wrapped up in a head-tie but her voice was surprisingly alert when she said, “You’re back late.”

Daryl paused at the door to the basement and said, “New customer. What you still doing up?”

Michonne stepped down to head back to the kitchen and said, “You and Rick were both out, now it’s just Rick and I can’t sleep. What’s with this new customer? Shop closes at six.”

Daryl followed her back to the kitchen. She went to the fridge, pulled out a beer, popped the lid and took a long gulp, then leaned against the counter to look at him. He turned on the downlighter and said, “Nothing. Idiot in way over his head. Got a crap car as work compensation. He should have sued his boss. Claims he’s got a friend with a lot of spare parts so it may salvageable.”

“He cute?” asked Michonne, meeting his gaze over her beer.

Of the two of them, Michonne was worse than Rosita at the teasing. Mainly because she knew him better, and she revelled in making him blush. There was a time before she and Rick got together, that he knew his new best friend was insanely jealous of how smoothly Daryl and Michonne got along. Daryl had been quick to reassure him that he was not interested, no matter how wonderful a person or beautiful she was. Or at least, she was a wonderful person when she did not know enough to tease Daryl with.

Daryl rolled his eyes and went to the fridge for a beer himself. Michonne snorted at his ignoring her and said, “You do know that Rosita and I talk, right? We know each other very well. She says that there’s this karate instructor across the street that had you tripping over your own feet and tongue today. She also mentioned that he was quite handsome. Big, round eyes. Green. Or maybe blue? Blond. I know you have a thing for blonds.”

“He’s one of those hipster punks who’s into old junk they call ‘retro’. He can’t tell crap from antique,” said Daryl, opening his own beer.

“So, you’re not denying it,” said Michonne, nodding approvingly.

“His car is going to take forever to repair, and then it might not even run,” continued Daryl, as if she had not spoken.

She laughed merrily and said, “Did you agree to let him help you? She said that she told him to ask. Rick and I should meet him.”

Daryl walked out of the kitchen and went to his room. Michonne followed, not at all deterred by his obstinacy. Daryl understood, she and Rick had connected absurdly quick and insanely deep in a matter of weeks after meeting. Being away from Rick made her worried and anxious, and when she was anxious among really close friends, she distracted herself by teasing them. Well fine, if she wanted to follow him.

As soon as Daryl got down to his room in the basement he stripped off his shirt. He had his own apartment here, tastefully decorated by Michonne before he arrived, so of course it was full of expensive, modern furniture in leather, black, and brown to give the effect of a bachelor pad. It was sometimes Rick’s man-cave, though his friend rarely went down to hang with him, instead it was the other way around, and was kept clean only by Daryl’s fear of Michonne’s wrath. It was why he did not dump his dirty clothes on the floor but went all the way into his room to the hamper.

When he emerged after a replenishing shower, Michonne was reheating dinner, something European she had no doubt been feeding the kids—Carl was going to come out of this more sophisticated than both his parents, Rick liked to say—and said, “Bouillabaisse, you’re going to love this.”

Daryl could not pronounce it but he smelled fish, so said, “You’re too fancy for us.”

Michonne laughed and replied, “Yes, but Rick was too good-looking to pass up, now come and eat your soup. I’ll show you how to make it some other time so you can impress your new friend.”

Daryl rolled his eyes but sat down at the table. Michonne sat opposite and waited for him to take a bite. Daryl watched her, noted the carefully blank expression on her face, snorted and took a spoonful. Unsurprisingly it was delicious. He snorted again and said, “It’s good, it’s always good. Stop acting like a nervous wreck whenever you try to bring us to your level, Finishing School.”

Michonne scowled, “I did not go to finishing school.”

“But you were one of them debutantes,” said Daryl.

She sighed and said, “Stop trying to distract me, tell me what you’ve found out about Paul.”

Daryl dropped his gaze to his plate, face hot. It was annoying how everyone was so interested in his love life. Rick and Michonne usually weren’t, but they were not above teasing if they caught his eye roving. He said, “There ain’t nothing to talk about. Told you all I know. You and Rosita need to leave this alone.”

“Of course,” said Michonne at once. “I would never interfere. Unless he tries something, Rosita told me about his bad breakup.”

“I’m older than you, I can take care of myself,” said Daryl, growling slightly.

She laughed and said, “Finish your soup, old man.”

Daryl considered snapping at her, decided it was not worth it, and said instead, “Go to bed, little lady. It’s way past your bedtime.”

She laughed louder but stood up anyway, ruffled his hair a bit, kissed his forehead and headed for the stairs. She stopped halfway up though, and said, “Hey, you’ve got mail. But do us a favour and open it in the morning.”

That could mean only one thing. Merle. The son of a bitch must have gone and gotten himself killed, or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Even the Devil didn’t want Merle hanging around.

“Okay,” said Daryl.

Michonne remained on the stairs for a beat, Daryl could just feel her gaze, and then she turned and continued on her way out. Daryl let himself relish the lingering sense of her affection, and took another spoonful of fancy soup.

Daryl knew love. His mother had loved him, though she loved drink and smokes a little more. Merle loved him, in his messed up, destructive way that probably would end in both of them dead if Daryl could not make this work. Hell, Daryl sometimes thought that his father must have loved him at some point, if only because Will never tried to get rid of him despite damn near killing him throughout his childhood. But Rick and Michonne, their love was different.

Rick showed Daryl that brotherly love did not have to be possessive and demanding, contingent on constant reaffirmation of their bond and rejection of anything and anyone that might get in the way of that. Michonne was the sister he had never had, full of fun and warmth that sometimes bordered on smothering. More than his therapy with Dr Cloyd, Daryl was sure that his two friends had done a lot to shed him of the hard, cold armour he had assembled. Hell, Michonne had not bat an eyelid at the prospect that Daryl might like a guy.

The past few hours in the garage with Paul had been enlightening, to the say the least. It had not taken them that long to put together a list of parts and, after a brief, quiet phone call, arrange a check for said parts in the clutter of Paul’s friends’ garage. But then Paul insisted on sticking around to help Daryl finish up, which, well, they ended up just talking.

Paul worked at Barrington House as an assistant curator/event planner/property manager of sorts, maintaining the museum for the new owners, some bigshot named Negan, and his Olympian wife, Lucille, who had been looking to expand her investment portfolio. Paul didn’t like them too much, but he hated Gregory who was outright terrified and ready to capitulate to every imperious demand. Fortunately, Abraham was nothing like that and this Negan sounded like every other asshole Daryl had encountered back in Georgia with his brother.

Paul had grown up in a group home that was a project of a congresswoman named Deanna Monroe, though he had never met the woman and did not have much contact with the others who had lived there. Paul lived now in an apartment complex on the other side of town from Rick and Michonne’s home, called Hilltop Suites, which he apparently had filled with so many books that he could not safely navigate it in the dark. Paul also loved to talk, and at length, without tiring, and so most of the time Daryl had just listened and waited to tire of him. Unfortunately, that had not happened and their parting a half-hour ago had been surprisingly, and annoyingly reluctant. Daryl did not even want to be thinking about him now, and yet.

The mail had been left on the countertop next to the sink. Against his better judgement, and Michonne’s warning, Daryl got up, retrieved them and set aside his dinner. He had talked Michonne—for she had the final say, no matter that it was Rick’s name on the mortgage—into letting him get a separate bill for the utilities. He knew his friends, they would have never let him pay a dime, and thankfully his bill was small. There were bank statements for his meagre savings, a new experience for neither his father nor Merle had trusted others with what little money they ever accumulated. There was a card from Glenn and Maggie Rhee, friends of Rick’s back in Georgia who had housed him after the breakup of his marriage, and later Daryl before the move. Apparently they were having a baby now, and he was invited to the baby shower. That was going to be interesting if Rick’s ex-wife had been invited too. And then he got to the letter from Merle.

The last time Daryl had seen Merle, it was on the day before he left Georgia to follow Rick to Virginia. His brother on the other side of the glass, the anger and hurt in his eyes, the pain in his voice as he practically begged his “baby brother” not to follow that hick cop and his Nubian queen out of state. Daryl had listened for as long as he could stand and then walked out and never looked back. Merle eventually got around to writing letters, but for a time, every breath hurt. He loved his brother, really he did, but Merle was…not good.

He took a breath and scanned the letter as quickly as he could. The letter was short but to the point. Merle was out on parole, good behaviour he said. Daryl could just hear him laughing at the authorities who believed there was anything good in a Dixon that wasn’t sweet baby Daryl. The important part though, was that Merle wanted Daryl to come visit him back in Georgia. He had thrown in some words to make it sound apologetic but the overall tone was of a demand. Merle wanted his baby brother to come home and if Daryl didn’t, he was going to come looking for him.

Well, crap.

 

Daryl had nothing against kids. In truth, he loved them. Back in Georgia there was always some neighbour or chick Merle was with who would invariably bring along a rugrat that she needed out of the way for a while. Daryl could sit for hours and just watch the little ones figure out the world, or test the limits of his goodwill, or just be, safe in the knowledge that the world wasn’t out to get them yet. And then there was Andre.

“Uncle Daryl, Mommy said you’ve been asleep too long so she wanted me to wake you up to make sure you weren’t dead.”

Daryl inhaled and opened his eyes. Andre stood just beside his bed, bright brown eyes wide and innocent. Daryl grunted and said, “Good morning. Why ain’t you in school?”

Still looking like an angel, Andre said, “I’m sick.”

Daryl stared at him. Andre stared back. Daryl put his hand on Andre’s forehead and was mildly surprised to find it warm. Andre did not even flinch, but waited patiently for Daryl to be satisfied and then said, “Mommy says you have to come have breakfast with us.”

Daryl groaned and rolled onto his back. “And Uncle Rick says that if you don’t come up with me, he’s coming down to get you.”

Daryl opened his eyes. The daylight filtering through the high casement windows lit the ceiling bright and white. He took a breath and hauled himself upright.

Andre ran ahead of him into the kitchen to take up his usual seat at the table, empty now for Carl was with his mother for the week. Michonne greeted him with a bright smile but it was Rick’s leisurely drawl of “Good morning” that caught his attention.

Rick Grimes, handsome, blue-eyed, tall, was like something out of a cowboy movie of years gone by, down to the bow-legged strut that earned more than a few second looks from neighbours and passers-by. This morning there were a few bruises on his face, but he otherwise looked no worse for the wear. Michonne was worried about nothing. Then Rick lifted a bandaged hand and he noticed Michonne’s expression darken slightly and he guessed that he had been called up to help shield the sheriff from the DA’s wrath. Good friend, Rick was, the best.

“Happened to you?” asked Daryl, taking a seat at the table beside Andre.

Andre pushed the cereal over to him and the milk. He smiled at the boy’s helpfulness while Rick replied, “Work. Legos. The usual.”

“You are entirely too careless,” said Michonne, but it did not sound cutting. Instead, she was fighting a smile when Daryl looked at her.

He rolled his eyes. Michonne and Rick could be sickening when they set their minds to it. Despite her fussing, Daryl knew that some part of Michonne found it insanely hot that Rick was so dedicated to his job that a week could not go by without some injury. He imagined that the PD's medical insurance was not similarly enthused. Andre finished pouring the milk and then sat back in his seat with his spoon poised and waiting for Daryl. Daryl glanced at him, snorted and took a scoop. Andre followed and grinned at him. Then Rick, clearly jealous of the bonding going on, said, “So I hear Merle’s out.”

Daryl sat back in his seat, tapped his spoon against the edge of his bowl a few times, and replied, “Saw his letter. Guess they told you before they told me.”

“They didn’t. You know I would not keep something like that from you right?” asked Rick, dipping his head a little to catch Daryl’s gaze.

Michonne returned to the table to sit beside Rick. Andre went up onto his knees to pour cereal for his mother.

“I know,” said Daryl, eventually. It had taken entirely too much effort to force the words out. “He’s been out a couple of weeks. Wants me to come visit.”

He was not looking directly at them, but Daryl did not miss the glance Michonne and Rick exchanged. Then Michonne leaned forward and asked, “Do you want us to…draw up some kind of restraining order?”

“No,” said Daryl, shaking his head at once. Merle was his brother. Merle would never respect no piece of paper telling him to stay away from his blood.

“Then, do you want to go visit him? Just for a few hours, nothing too long, I could drive you down, so that he won’t surprise you?” asked Michonne.

This time, Daryl looked at her. She met his gaze and held it. He looked down first and said, “Don’t…don’t worry about it. He’s my brother. I’ll handle it. He didn’t…he didn’t hurt me.”

Rick cleared his throat. Daryl kept his head down. Rick said anyway, “I know he’s your brother but I’m not going to let him drag you down with him. I want you to know that. If you have any trouble, you have to come to me and Michonne. I’m serious.”

Daryl nodded, could only nod, felt like that was all he could do with this situation. Thinking about Merle made his throat close up and his head tight. He took a breath and said, “Okay.”

 

As he said he would be, Paul was back at the garage promptly at seven-thirty that afternoon, ready to take Daryl over to Aaron’s house to check the parts. This time he wore jeans, combat boots, a dark grey tee advertising some band, his hair loose, jacket in one hand, helmet in the other, backpack thrown over one shoulder. Daryl, aware that after work he would not look or smell presentable at some stranger’s place, had also brought a change of clothes. It would not do much to dispel the notion that he was trouble, but at least he would be clean.

Paul had walked right up to the import Daryl was once again under, cursing the owner out under his breath as he worked, and said, “Hey, this looks much of the same as it did last night.”

Daryl had almost dropped the wrench he was holding on his face, then swiftly rolled out from under the car, met Paul’s bright, mischievous smile, and said, “I’m almost finished. Would have been already if someone didn’t insist on talking my ear off last night.”

Paul chuckled at that and said, “I cannot guarantee that I won’t again tonight. I checked Aaron’s garage before I came in today, we may there be a while so he’s invited us to dinner. That is, if you don’t mind. I promise we won’t try to get you involved in anything weird.”

Daryl flashed him a look, brow furrowed, and Paul’s smile widened. Then he looked away, taking a sweeping glance of the garage and asked, “So are you going to be ready soon? I know it’s rude of me to rush but they make the best spaghetti and meatballs outside of Italy. Plus they’ve been making their own beer. It is way better than you might think.”

If Daryl did not know better, it sounded as if this guy was asking him out. But that was absurd because they had only just started talking to each other and Daryl was clearly overthinking this. He pushed off the import to stand and said, “Whatever, let me go get changed.”

Daryl wound up taking a shower and changing, then sent a quick message off to Abraham to let him know that he was closing up for the evening, and another to Michonne so that she wouldn’t worry too much. Fat chance on that one, but she was a grown woman, far be it from Daryl to try to tell her what to do when it came to her friends.

Abraham had an actual antique truck, a shiny 1950s Ford that he nevertheless treated like the old junk-hauler it was. Betsy came complete with a pin-up photo stuck on the dash, at which Paul giggled, and a radio that seemed stuck on music that someone decided was classic by virtue of age.

“This is a beautiful truck. Shame that we’re working her like this,” said Paul once he was settled in.

Daryl grunted at that and said, “It’s a truck, it’s doing what it was made for. Would be a shame to just have it sitting there instead.”

Paul nodded at this and asked, “So, ever been to the Alexandria neighbourhood?”

As it turned out, Aaron and Eric lived in Daryl’s neighbourhood. In fact, he drove past Rick and Michonne’s house to get to them, though he did not point that out to Paul. Not that Aaron or Eric were aware of or concerned about Daryl’s attempt at ignorance when they opened the door.

“Oh hey, Paul—hey, I know you, you live in that house on the other street with the couple and the two boys,” said Aaron.

Paul snapped his gaze to Daryl’s face. Daryl ducked his head a little, he could not help it, and said, “Hello. Evening. I, uh, don’t know you though.”

“That’s okay, that’s okay, come in, come in,” said Aaron, smiling brightly.

He led them into a house that was practically identical to Rick and Michonne’s except for the furniture. They had warmer, brighter colours in reds, yellows and browns, and a multitude of photographs and souvenirs from what looked like every NGO known to man, as well as an insane collection of license plates stuck to their walls. Eric, a tall, slim, red-haired man, came out of the kitchen with a big smile and a similar reaction.

“Hey Paul. Oh, hi neighbour. Welcome to the neighbourhood, Aaron and I have been trying to say that to you guys for weeks.”

Daryl’s face grew hotter and he tried to brush it off by asking, “Um, Paul here said you guys may have parts in your garage for his car?”

“Oh yes,” said Eric. “But you guys just got here and dinner’s done so how about we eat first?”

“Yes! Spaghetti!” exclaimed Paul, clasping his hands together. “I’ve been dreaming about this stuff since you invited me.” Then, as if remembering Daryl was there, “That is, if you don’t mind?”

“Think of it as a ‘welcoming meal’, if you like. You and the Grimes’ were supposed to be our next dinner guests once we were able to catch you guys out,” said Eric, trying to sweeten the deal.

Daryl still had to drive back to the shop with Paul to collect their bikes later, but it would not be a long drive and probably not that late. He shrugged and said, “Okay.”

If he was going to be perfectly honest, Daryl had had better spaghetti—Michonne was on a personal quest so in a few years they were all going to be fat snobs—but Eric’s was still good. The conversation, held among the other three men because Daryl was not much of a talker with food in front of him, was better. They filled in a lot of blanks. Aaron was the world traveller and NGO recruiter, Eric was a lawyer, though he had heard of “Mrs Grimes” (Daryl decided not to correct him) since she had started making a name for herself on her first day. Aaron and Eric used to travel together but were taking things quieter now as they worked on getting a kid. Daryl wished them luck with that, there were days when Andre seemed determined to rain hell on the world and nothing short of a bath, bottle of milk and early bed would stop him.

Paul had met the two when they had been considering wedding venues, and though they had not picked Barrington in the end, the three had become friends. Supposedly they made regular trips to flea markets and thrift stores to collect items for their homes together. They also believed, like Paul, that the lemon could be saved. Daryl, once they finally headed over to the garage to look at the parts, refused to allow them to hold onto that hope.

“Most of this stuff is either unusable or not the correct make. You should really junk that car,” said Daryl.

Three pairs of eyes looked over at him, and one of them was accompanied by a pout. Daryl held out for as long as he could, then rolled his eyes and started walking through the junkyard.

Paul had not been exaggerating when he said that Aaron had a lot of parts in his garage. Most of it was for a bike, which probably explained Paul’s, but the rest of it was not. Ten minutes into it, Daryl said, “Man, I could build you a better car with the stuff in here.”

Aaron snorted but Eric burst out laughing. He laughed easily, Daryl noticed, and was almost always smiling. Michonne was a little like that. Rick had said once that it made living easier, and looking at the way Aaron’s gaze was drawn to the sight of his partner’s amusement, Daryl thought he agreed. Paul, less amused, folded his arms and said, “I’ll just take the fix, thanks.”

Daryl looked up at him, shrugged and said, “Your funeral. Just might be for real though. Your brakes were about done.”

Paul’s face formed a scowl but it did not quite reach his eyes. Daryl went back to his catalogue. In the background, he heard Paul scolding his friends, “Don’t encourage him. This is going to work out great. He doesn’t know it yet, but this project is going to make him famous.”

Eric laughed harder.

An hour later, Daryl and Paul loaded the salvageable parts into the tray of Abraham’s truck, bid Aaron and Eric goodnight—though they promised to visit Rick and Michonne the next day to arrange a dinner—and headed back to the shop.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” asked Paul, smiling over at Daryl.

Daryl refused to look at him, though he could feel the hippie’s gaze, and replied, “They were alright.” And then, because he could not help himself, added, “Don’t know why they’re friends with you though. They look like they have sense.”

Paul laughed aloud at that and said, “Is that anyway to talk to your employer?”

“When they don’t got no sense, it is,” said Daryl, glancing over at him.

Paul laughed again. “Fine. I’ll let that go. But if it isn’t obvious by now, one of the reasons we’re good friends is because we’re all gay, and us gays got to stick together.”

Daryl did not know what to say that. Then, before he could think better of it, “Figured as much. Saw your break-up.”

“Ah,” said Paul. “You were working that night.”

“Yup. Thought you were going to get your ass kicked but what kind of teacher would you be if you did not know how to take care of yourself,” said Daryl. 

Paul’s tone was considerably subdued as he replied, “Yeah, I probably would have deserved it.”

Daryl glanced over at the other man, to find him slumped into his seat, gaze distant. Clearly this was a touchy subject. He cleared his throat and tried, “Bullshit. No one deserves to get beat up.”

Paul said nothing for a few streets, so Daryl had time to reconsider what he said, and the many ways this could have been misinterpreted. He tended to say the wrong thing sometimes, though people did not call him on it often. Well, except Andre. Andre had no filter and didn’t care what he sounded like, but he was also three years old. When he stopped at the last red light before the turn-off to the shop, Paul exhaled heavily, turned to Daryl and said, “Thank you for doing this, Daryl. I know it’s a hassle but I really am grateful. And hey, look I got you free food. We’re off to a great start.”

Daryl looked over at Paul, and then pulled the truck into the shop yard. 

Paul helped him offload the truck and pack the parts into the lemon for further sorting the next day. By the time they were finished it was nearly midnight and Daryl was yawning every two minutes. Paul caught him at it once, smiled and said, “Well that’s my cue to bring this evening to a close. Should I escort you home?”

“You’re going the whole other way,” said Daryl, unimpressed.

“Ah, but you didn’t say no,” said Paul, grinning now.

“Get!” snapped Daryl.

Paul laughed at that for a while, barely managing to retort, “I haven’t laughed this much in weeks. My car should have given out on me sooner.”

“You’re damn lucky it didn’t,” said Daryl, not in the least amused. Paul was charming, and he knew it and that was going to be trouble. 

Paul waited until Daryl had locked up and got onto his own bike, before hopping on his and saying, “I think I should take your number, you can text me when you get home.”

“Man,” Daryl growled, annoyed now.

Paul put his hands up placating, still smiling, and said, “Sorry, couldn’t resist. Can’t blame a guy for trying though, I haven’t scared you off yet.”

Daryl grunted and repeated, “Get!”

Paul just smirked at him, started his bike and left. Daryl watched him go until the tail-lights disappeared, exhaled heavily and asked the moon, "Man, what the hell are you doing?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that this and Sweet are slow-going but writing is hard and I am lazy.


End file.
